Latest Article (05/02):
From the Cradle to the Hamster Cage

It was a weekend in spring; I must have been about 23 years old. Is it really called spring when that douche bag of a weather can’t decide whether to snow or put on almost 20° Celsius? I wasn’t sure and I’m still not. Besides, the exact date escapes me and, frankly, doesn’t matter in the slightest.

I had a job at the time; if you can call it that. It was just some freelance shit with enough requests to make ends meet, and by ‘enough’ I mean enough to barely get by without being able to appreciate it whatsoever. The work wasn’t even hard this time around, but the point is, I was rather busy for my standards - which always translates to severe depression and alcoholism in my case.

At least, that was my excuse for living it up every Friday through Sunday. If everything went well, which it rarely did - so Tuesday was usually the day to pay, considering hangovers and other imponderabilities. So, come Friday, I was trying to wash all the pent-up hate out of my system, starting early that night, around 5 PM. I remember liking my Scotch that night, which generally comes as no surprise, but I actually remember the extraordinary joy of that very moment. I felt I was up to great things that night.

And I was right.

I got ready for a good night out, drinking to the point of being quite happy, including being able to tolerate that awful outfit and hairdo I had somehow drunkenly chosen to grace some local dive with. I packed another half pint of Mac Percy for my way - it was quite the walk, considering I was both too stingy to pay for a cab or bus and they probably wouldn’t have had me anyway – and about 40 minutes later I arrived at some disco-type venue where several thousand idiots usually spend their weekend, desperately trying to get laid while devouring the cheap-ass house vodka at one of the four bars inside. In other words, a place after my fancy.

Once I was past the bouncers, it already hit me that I actually hated the place. Oh well, that’s how they make their money, I figured, and checked out the bar across the entrance. It was alright for my taste; they served me alcohol. I am not picky. Two vodka - two bucks fifty. Not too shabby. I decided to try that about fifteen times.

It worked, too. I felt it. I was the man. People talked to me. People liked me. People bought me drinks. People offered me spots in bands of theirs I had never heard of (neither spot, nor band). People offered me the pinkest, freshest, stinkiest kind of speed I had ever tasted. (Those people I liked back, by the way.) By now, I actually started to believe the hype. That worked out for me even better. I told everybody off and they still liked me. Idiots. I fell on my face and told everybody off twice, same thing. I could do no wrong, so why bother?

The ladies were crazy about me as well. Especially the one who said she lived just across the street from my usual early-morning after-hour dive bar. She said that on the way there after being thrown out, by the way. I don’t even remember if it was time to go, or if the bouncers were just being jealous of my status. I was quite flattered, as you can imagine. She wasn’t too ugly, seemed really nice, even a tad intelligent. Pushing thirty, but that was okay. The only thing was, she seemed kind of sober, so I invited her into the bar for a quick drink or ten first. It took a great deal of persuasion to even get her there, I recall some petty shit about her having been raped there or something, but in the end she agreed. She wanted me badly, I could tell.

I even kept that in mind about two hours later; the sun had already come up, when she made me her last offer to go home to her place. I told her off really nicely. I was amazed at how sensitive and coherent I could be when I wanted to. I was so good, even, that she picked me up from the ground in front of the bar from where I had decided to hold my immortal speech and laughed at me, babbling about some moron being cute while drunk off his ass. I didn’t really pay attention. She insisted on showing me the way to her apartment, though.

I was really, really glad she picked me up, so, once I got rid of her, I tried to find my way back to the bar. And I did. Unfortunately, they closed about three hours later. I was dying to put my little leftover money into the jukebox to listen to Peggy March’s 1965 classic “Mit 17 Hat Man Noch Träume” for the 20th time that night, but no such luck. Despite the ten or so double Ricards I had enjoyed in there, the lack of really bad music pissed me off a great deal.

So what do you do in that situation?

Right, search for a female.

Not what you thought, pig. Women just have no taste in music whatsoever so you can be sure to fulfill all your needs in that department. Maybe even more Schnapps? Okay, who am I kidding, I just couldn’t walk all the way home anymore. Might as well find that chick who wanted me in the first place. I even made it to her building, after a quick, involuntary stop at a nursing home for disgusting poor people at the corner, but that’s a different story; one that I will never tell, mind you.

I wasn’t sure if I was welcome at her apartment as she had told me she was living with three other chicks. One cop, one sports student and the last one I forgot - probably a business studies major. Just my clientele. But I was smart enough to register under a fake name, which I managed to yell into the intercom once some unfamiliar voice squeaked at me in front of the door. Turned out they didn’t even have an intercom and it must have been someone on the street, but either way, I somehow got in. I wish I could have seen that crazy, stumbling fella, dressed like an 80s biker chick, chanting some random old guy’s name against a row of houses at 11 o’clock in the morning.

It’s a little blurry after that but I remember an empty bottle of Absolut Vodka, a bunch of creepy little pets and no stereo. Shitloads of the most embarrassing music I had ever seen, and I say that in the best way possible, but no way to listen to it at ear-piercing volumes. Bummer. Of course, I was still the man so naturally I found a way around it: she had an electric piano. She was quite impressed, too, as I showcased the talent I might have had 10 years ago, learning one or two songs a buddy of mine had written for his ambient black metal solo project. Unfortunately I couldn’t play those anymore in my state. I sovereignly covered up that fact by quickly trying to destroy the electrics when she wasn’t looking. For better or worse, that didn’t work out either.

So, after arguing with her (a little) and with myself (a lot) over Christian Rock and whether Robert Sweet was the cutest guy on earth or indeed that silly emo fuck she had on her desktop, I decided to go to bed for a while. Which leads me to my next disappointment: the cunt didn’t even have a proper bed. Just some weird couch I was supposed to share with her. Oh well. She started fondling around a little while babbling some crap about opening her bra. I could see one tit, rather well-proportioned, actually. She noticed and giggled like an idiot.

- “Take it off, silly!”

- “I don’t know how. I don’t wear those things myself.”

- “Come on! You never opened a bra?! Tee hee!”

- “Honey, opening bras with one hand might have been something to brag about when I was thirteen. Nowadays, I give even less of a fuck than back then. If you can’t even undress yourself, you’d better not. In fact, you didn’t even help me with the boots. And those are actually hard to take off by yourself. You didn’t even know that Stryper…”

I passed out. 

I might have slept for about an hour. She was gone. Or rather, I was gone, because I woke up in something that resembled a fucking hamster cage. After a while I even realized why: it was a fucking hamster cage. I was surrounded by litter and shavings from saw mills, a bunch of carrots were lying around, I could even make out a little plastic exercise wheel. Half her weird sleeping couch was open to make room for some huge rodent park I must have fallen into while I was passed out. I got the fuck out of there, realized that the Absolut was gone once again, and I would have broken down right then and there, had my bladder not been full as never before. I was going to explode. So, I rushed out the door of that room, heard voices from some other one, pried it open and faced two of the squarest bitches I had ever seen; clearly the cop and the sports student.

“Excuse me,” I said and then coughed my lungs out for a good thirty seconds, “where is the… I mean, good morning, wait, what time… oh fuck it, WHERE’S THE FUCKING CRAPPER?!”

The queen bitch just pointed to the left, clearly the cop, had to be the fucking cop, didn’t even look half bad and shit, just out of spite, of course, because cops are cruel assholes like that. I went next door and pissed. And pissed. And pissed. So relieving. Definitely the highlight of my day. I puked a little into the sink, yelled a half-assed, aimless goodbye into the hall and got the fuck out for good.

Despite still being very drunk and kind of hungover already at the same time, in case that’s even physically possible, I dragged myself towards my home, just stopping to buy a fresh bottle of Mac Percy and a pack of smokes. I found the door, got in, sat down, cracked the bottle and history repeated itself.

I actually meant to tell some more or less interesting things about the following two days as well, but my ending in the last paragraph said it all. Too bad I just ruined it by not being able to shut up. Story of my life…




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